


You're In My Veins (& I Cannot Get You Out)

by rosesmallow



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, POV Eleventh Doctor, Post-Episode: s07e14 The Name of the Doctor, References to The Snowmen, They're Soft Sad Idiots With No Comprehension of Personal Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesmallow/pseuds/rosesmallow
Summary: Clara, standing in front of the tear of his timestream, in the heart of a future TARDIS that served as his grave, throwing him one last look as she commanded him to run — before throwing herself into oblivion.He had run, too. Straight to her, just like she had run toward him for centuries without him knowing because now he knew. With as much certainty as he knew his timestream was constantly righting itself, as much as he felt his own history clinging to his weary bones, he knew she was there with him this whole time.Or, the one where the Doctor and Clara recover from the events of The Name of the Doctor.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	You're In My Veins (& I Cannot Get You Out)

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the Rings of Akhaten the other day, I looked at a [ Tumblr prompt](https://scarecrowprince.tumblr.com/post/186852390688/fall-out-boy-sentence-starters-pt-2-ill-be-the) that was "I try to picture me without you but I can't" and was instantly reminded of The Doctor and Clara, and this 3k monster happened!

The TARDIS hummed around him like a heartbeat as The Doctor finally gave in to exhaustion and collapsed onto the staircase. Once upon a time, he perched here to read a book while waiting on Clara to come in; there had been very little doubt in either of his hearts that she would come, that she would say yes to traveling with him, it was like he told Rory all those centuries ago — had it been centuries? Time was a complex, unraveling thing and for a Lord of it, the Doctor struggled to keep up with it — offering all of time and space to someone was like asking a child if they wanted sweets: the answer was always, undeniably  _ yes. _

He often asked himself if it was worth it, whisking people away from their dreadfully normal, boring lives and running with them through pages of history and starlight because, for all of their dazzling smiles at the wonders of the universe he showed them, there was just as many tears shed for friends or allies lost. For every life spared, there was one or two taken.

Everyone saw him as a hero, a man of myth, a savior of worlds. Some might even consider him a god. He was a fairytale, he was the man who hid up in the clouds stopping children from having nightmares, he was an imaginary friend. The Raggedy Doctor. A healer and a wise man. A madman with a box.

“ _ Titles, _ ” the Doctor muttered as he rubbed his forehead. His hands were still dirty from Trenzalore, he hadn’t given himself the time to scrub them clean yet. “That’s all those are, titles. They don’t mean anything -”

The TARDIS whirred. The Doctor threw his hands up. No time for cosmic angst whenever the TARDIS was concerned. “Yes, I know the Doctor is a title as well - you know what I meant!” He angrily shoved himself up off the steps and marched to the console. When the Doctor marched angrily, there were two distinct versions of it: the kicked puppy that needed to pout, and the oncoming storm. Somehow, this march was a combination of the two: a chastised oncoming storm put in his place by his oldest and always companion. “There’s a difference between a title and a promise.”

He hung his head. His dark hair, often carefully brushed aside, fell over his eyes. He felt ancient; he  _ was _ ancient, he knew, but there was a difference between being ancient and feeling it. Right now, every moment of all his lives laid heavy on his bones: a result, no doubt, from the near-destruction of his timestream.

Every moment, every tear, every laugh, every victory, every loss, every kiss — all of it nearly erased, destroyed from the inside out by the Great Intelligence. His entire being, torn asunder. His body —  _ bodies  _ — searing with pain in every moment of his entire, devastatingly long life, each moment pressed together like pages in a book. Each beat of his hearts had felt like the last because he knew it likely would be.

And then she was there.

His Impossible Girl, existing in every moment, protecting him from the shadows, all without his knowledge. History had been rewritten, ever so slightly, the tapestry behind his one-man show had changed, and it was because of Clara Oswald. He might have owned the stage, but the stage was only there because of her. She acted as a balm to his soul in Victorian England, she’d dragged him down from his cloud of sorrow, and then had torn herself apart a million, billion times over to heal what the Great Intelligence had wounded.

“She could’ve died.” The Doctor breathed because it’s all he could see when his eyes closed. Sometimes he could see it happening again with his eyes open. Clara, standing in front of the tear of his timestream, in the heart of a future TARDIS that served as his grave, throwing him one last look as she commanded him to  _ run _ — before throwing herself into oblivion. 

He had run, too. Straight to her, just like she had run toward him for centuries without him knowing because now he  _ knew.  _ With as much certainty as he knew his timestream was constantly righting itself, as much as he felt his own history clinging to his weary bones, he knew she was there with him this whole time. “She  _ has _ died, a million times over. For me. What a  _ waste _ .”

The TARDIS purred gently. In the cold, empty control room, it felt like the closest thing to a comforting touch that the Doctor could get. “Yes, I know! I’ve heard this enough from Vastra. She saved the universe,  _ I know that. _ ” His temper was flaring with the memories of it, with the coddling everyone seemed insistent on doing — he knew what was at stake, how many stars would have blipped out of existence if Clara hadn’t intervened. How many lives dead instead of saved.

But her life for his...he wasn’t worth that.

He wished there was something nearby for him to throw, but there wasn’t. Instead, he shouted, an anguished cry born of frustration and fear and delayed trauma. He wept silently, the TARDIS going quiet all around him. One thought struck him amidst the chaos of his memories. For any mere human, it would be a thought borne of sentiment; an abstract notion full of endearment. For a Time Lord, for this particular Time Lord, it was a dangerous line to cross, a concept entirely possible for him to grasp.

Not one star, he thought, was worth Clara Oswald’s life.

The TARDIS warbled a warning, lights flashing indignantly but not without kindness. The Doctor ignored them, instead, he wiped away his tears with the back of his dirtied hands. He didn’t respond to the TARDIS either as he trotted off, deeper into the ship to find the room he’d brought Clara to after he did a very clever thing and they escaped his timestream.

He paused long enough to freshen up and scrub the dirt and memories of Trenzalore off his hands and face, where he smeared dirt earlier to wipe away tears, then headed to the room he left Clara in. He hesitated a moment before entering and straightened his previously off-kilter bowtie. The Doctor rolled his neck, then stepped inside.

If he strained his memory, which was still in flux, he thought that this room once belonged to one of his other companions...he wasn’t sure which, only that it was likely in his fifth regeneration...the color purple sprung to mind though, followed by an unimpressed glare steeled with muddy brown eyes. An Australian air stewardess, probably.

The Doctor dragged a rickety old chair closer to the bed that Clara was asleep in, then sank down into it. There weren't any cushions in it, which meant that it was an uncomfortable chair to sit in for long, but it was inconsequential to the girl in front of him. He’d sit in this chair for days, if necessary, to be there when she woke.

Because she hadn’t woken yet, not since they escaped Trenzalore. They stopped to recuperate briefly at Vastra’s, long enough for Strax to do a quick (monitored) exam of Clara. He scolded her unconscious body for fifteen minutes for not getting enough of a nutrient that didn’t even exist on Earth before Jenny pried him away, and left the Doctor and Vastra alone with Clara. 

The image of an unconscious Clara surrounded by the Paternoster Gang had stirred up too many memories for the Doctor to handle. Once they were all quite certain that Clara would make a full recovery (there was just no telling when it would happen), the Doctor had politely abandoned their post there, haunted by a fall that should have never happened, on a Christmas day that should not have been filled with sorrow — 

The Doctor closed his eyes, inhaled slowly.

A rustling sound startled him. He looked up in time to see Clara stirring on the mattress; the blankets were the source of the noise, apparently. Her face was screwed up: she looked frightened.

“Clara?” The Doctor started to reach his hand out for her but faltered midway. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands, or if he should even try to wake her. There was no telling what waking her early could do to her health. Still, he couldn’t just sit there and watch her like this.

He moved swiftly from the chair to the bed beside her, placing his hand on her forehead. It was warm to the touch, a shade too hot to be normal. Ignoring the stab of concern he felt, the Doctor pushed back some of her hair, letting his fingers get caught up in the strands. It grounded some of the lingering fear he felt: she was  _ here _ , she was alive.

(Then again, he mused privately, River Song was a living memory in a library a thousand lightyears from where he was now, and he’d still managed to snog her, so perhaps touch was not the most grounding thing he could use to comfort himself that Clara was still quite alive and well.)

“Clara,” he said again, partially to comfort her and partially because he loved the way her name sounded when he said it, loved that he could say it again. “Clara, it’s alright. You’re safe, you’re in the TARDIS...you’re with me.” The last part felt redundant for multiple reasons, particularly the fact that if it weren’t for being with him, she wouldn’t be in this situation. 

Her contorted expression halted, then softened. Her head twisted, burrowing further into the palm of his hand. The Doctor stared in bewilderment at how his hand had become a Clara-nest, then scanned the room for a possible replacement.

However, yet another noise made him start, and this one made both his hearts skip a beat.

“Are you alright?”

The Doctor turned back around to see a bleary-eyed Clara staring up at him, very much alive and awake. Her voice was a little hoarse, and he immediately felt guilty for not bringing a glass of water with him. Then his brain, enraptured by the fact that she was awake, caught up with her question and he nearly exploded.

“Am  _ I _ alright?” the Doctor spluttered, staring at her with widened eyes. “I’m not the one who just jumped into someone else’s timestream. I should be asking  _ you _ that question -”

Clara placed her hand on his, effectively shutting him up. A weak smile tugged on her lips, “You’re alright.” It was a statement now like all she needed for confirmation was him blubbering like an idiot which, fairly, was his normal.

“Thanks to you.” The Doctor replied, voice soft. Clara’s smile grew in size, strength. She ducked her eyes away from his, but the Doctor couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Thank you.”

“You would’ve done the same,” Clara replied. 

The Doctor held her gaze for a beat before he looked away. Yes, yes he would have. But then Clara would not have had such a complex, complicated timestream as he had. Maybe she would  _ now _ , but it'd be far less a sacrifice. It would be no more a grand gesture than passing the salt if he'd been in her place.

“That's not quite the same.” 

“Does it really matter?”

Stricken, the Doctor looked back up at her. He couldn't seem to keep his sight on her for very long, but he set his mind to it now. “Yes, it matters. It's one of the most matterful things in the universe right now. The universe,” he added, sticking his index finger into the air, “which is still knocking around all thanks to you.”

Clara turned her head to partially bury her face into the pillow. When she spoke, her voice was muffled but still understandable. “Because of you.”

“I wouldn't have been there to save them if you hadn't saved me.” The Doctor whispered quietly. Clara peaked out of a curtain of hair and pillow, cheeks tinged pink.

They sat there for a long moment, musing the fact that they were only here because of the other. She’d saved him a billion times over, and he’d finally —  _ finally  _ — managed to save her, just once, by rescuing her from his timestream. He’d found her, one last time, and he was desperate to keep her by his side now, he never wanted to lose her again.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t him that broke the silence.

“I've been trying to picture me without you,” Clara said slowly like the words meant everything and she wanted to say them in the right order and with importance, “but I can't. I have memories of all these lives that are mine but aren’t. Everything about them is muddied except you. You’re the only thing clear in them, your face. All of them.”

The Doctor exhaled and took her hand. He used his thumb to rub circles against her soft skin. “The memories should fade eventually. You probably remember my face the most because I was the one your... _ echoes _ were after. They were moths and I was the flame.”

Clara narrowed her eyes, decidedly unimpressed with this analogy.

The Doctor backtracked, worried he was in for another punch to the arm like she had once before, and decided to altogether scrap this analogy. “You jumped into my timestream, so the end goal was to protect this dumb face. And all my other dumb faces. I imagine those memories will fade too, eventually.”

Clara closed her eyes. A tear welled down her cheek. He wished he could remember whatever it was that she was, but he was so ancient and his memory might be long but even it had its limits. 

“What if I don’t want to forget them? Or some of them at least.” She asked finally.

The Doctor frowned. “Whatever would you want to remember?”

She opened her eyes and it struck him all at once, the memory of another Clara on a Christmas day: her head turned just as it was now, to look at him, a lone tear streaking down a weary face. She’d told him to run then, and now he worried irrationally she would do the same now. 

So, when Clara answered him, he should’ve expected it, really.

“You.”

He hadn’t expected it though, so his mask slipped and his face fell unguarded. His voice was low, serious and a little bit shaky as he asked, “Me?”

Clara smiled weakly, closing her eyes, like she was remembering a good memory. “I remember you, in the Dalek Asylum.” She opened her eyes, something new flashing in her eyes, “In Victorian England.”

The Doctor froze, but his eyes lit up. Both his hearts seemed to stutter in place. Part of him was elated, that at last, he wasn’t the only one who remembered those adventures. The other half of him was filled with shame, the regret of not being able to save her either time ate away at him. Now she remembered his failures, too. She should hate him, realize how undeserving he was of her sacrifice.

“Clara, I’m sorry.” The Doctor squeezed her hand. “I should’ve done more to protect you -” he faltered because although she sat before him, still breathing, the loss of the Clara he’d met in England still felt fresh. Was this what his friends felt like, he wondered, when he regenerated? 

“Rubbish,” Clara muttered like she was waving away a ridiculous notion like grass on Earth could turn pink. “You did all you could. And anyway, they brought you to me, didn’t they?” She smiled. “Who’s the moth now?”

“I’ll always run to you, Clara Oswald.” The Doctor promised. Somehow, in this quiet moment between the two of them, as the TARDIS hummed and soared through time and space, that promise felt heavier than he meant it to.

But it made Clara smile, and that’s all that mattered right now. He’d do anything to keep her smiling. He threw his legs over the top of the mattress, an action that elicited a raised eyebrow from Clara, which he pointedly ignored. He leaned his back against the wall so that he wasn’t lying down beside her. The Doctor didn’t know why that mattered so much when neither of them seemed to be aware of the concept of personal space, but he felt that it wasn’t right for now. 

Still, Clara scooted closer to him, linking one of her arms through his, holding him tight. Her warm eyes settled on a spot on the wall across the room, and as the Doctor admired the color of her eyes, he was reminded of nebulae falling into a black hole: her eyes were dark, sometimes ruthless, but they dazzled with starlight. 

“Do you dream?” 

The question startled him out of his embarrassingly obvious staring, but Clara didn’t acknowledge it, so he simply cleared his throat and let out a small chuckle. “Of course I dream. Everybody dreams. Just because I’m not human doesn’t mean I don’t dream, Clara.”

That earned him an eye roll. “You’ve said you don’t sleep.”

“You don’t need to sleep to dream.” The Doctor replied, closing his eyes. No cruel memories found him this time, and he was grateful.

“Well, what do you dream about?” Clara’s voice was full of curiosity. It reminded him of her glee at seeing Akhaten for the first time, and her million and one questions about the various alien cultures. It made his cheeks warm a little, that she was just as interested in him as she was another world.

The Doctor thought for a moment. It was true that he dreamt, but sometimes it was hard to remember what they were about. The ones he did remember were often nightmares...except.

There was one.

“The same thing everybody dreams about. I dream about where I’m going.”

Clara laughed a little, shifting in the space beside him, closer. “But you’re not going anywhere. You just wander about.”

The Doctor smiled and allowed himself to kiss her on the top of her head. It was true he was a wanderer at heart, and he likely always would be throughout all his lives, but recently he had something he was running to. Someone, actually. Someone who had already slipped back into an easy sleep against his side.

“Not always,” he answered with a gentle smile. “Goodnight, Clara.”


End file.
